


What happens in Rome

by KiliMouse



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF, War Horse RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Benedict is a huge sub in this, Crossdressing Kink, Lingerie, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Roleplay, St. Andrew's Cross, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 17:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiliMouse/pseuds/KiliMouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hello, darling,” says Tom, his voice low. Benedict raises his head slowly, like a frightened animal- and, by all the saints, he’s only gone and worn vibrant red lipstick as well. Tom’s cock takes on a life of its own at this point, because there’s no way his brain is capable of telling it what to do in this lust-fogged state. “Did you miss me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What happens in Rome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stravaganza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stravaganza/gifts).



> I'msosorryokIjusthadto.  
> This was started before I read an extremely unkind Daily Mail article suggesting Benedict is needy, clingy and neurotic and I just want to make doubly clear that not only is this COMPLETE FICTION but I don't really think Benedict is a needy, clingy, neurotic person, and anyway it's none of my business.

There was no questioning it. Tom was too polite to question people anyway, but there was also the fact that nobody queried Martin Freeman, so when Tom got a call from him three weeks before his birthday, the only thing he said was "yes, where and when?"  
"Your birthday, if you don't already have plans. If you do, as soon after as you can make it. Rome. We have the suite booked for a week- under false names, of course- and he's dying to see you."  
Pleasurable shivers ran up Tom's spine at those words. Since that one unexpected night a few months previously, after which he had got himself together, bid goodbye to Martin and Benedict, and left without hope of a repeat session and an ache in his heart, he had been trying not to think about Benedict... Benedict on edge, sobbing for him as Tom slid his cock between pink, stretched lips, Benedict shuddering as Martin forced the toy in and out of his straining body, Benedict held back from coming until he was a wreck...  
"Could I speak with him?" Tom asked tentatively. He had Ben's number, sure, but now he knew Martin was his dominant figure, he wasn't sure he should be speaking to Ben behind the man's back. Martin chuckled a low laugh.  
"You can try, if I take the gag out," he said, and Tom's cock began to stir at the mental image. "There we go, you bad boy. Let's get this out your mouth for a bit, see if you learnt your lesson. I'll untie one hand, too. There. Be good for Tom." He knew Benedict craved the submission, craved the restraint, and as the raspy baritone of a man kept gagged for a considerable amount of time reached his ears over the line, he could not help but ease his free hand into the waistband of his trousers and palm his cock, biting his lip.  
"H-hello, Tom."  
Tom's hand moved further up his shaft, the way Ben said his name making him even harder.  
"Hello, beautiful," he said softly. "I hear Martin had you all gagged up- were you being a bad boy, Benedict?"  
A whimper.  
"No-oo-o."  
"Are you sure, Benedict?"  
"Tell Tom what you were doing this morning," Martin interrupted, and Tom could hear the humiliated delight in Benedict's voice as Martin slapped him sharply before he replied, "I was touching myself".  
Tom drew a deep breath, slipped his thumb into the puddle of precome in his slit and wished Benedict were with him to open his mouth and take it.  
"No, tell him the rest," Martin said firmly, and Benedict gasped. A faint buzzing could be heard down the line; Benedict's breath hitched as it grew louder and quieter in turn. "Tell him, Ben, or I'm going to hold this against your balls until you're seconds from coming and then snap you into a cock ring until this evening." Martin was an evil man once he got hold of a vibrator.  
"I was w-w-watching you," croaked Benedict, "I was watching you in The Deep Blue Sea, your s-sex scene, wishing it were me and not her, and I was- I was- I said your name when I came all over myself."  
"Filthy," murmured Tom, appreciatively, and bucked his hips rapidly into his own grip. "What a naughty boy you are, Benedict. Maybe I should stay well away from you after all?" He knew he would do no such thing. Benedict was irresitible- and kinky enough to make anyone want him as their sub.  
"No, no please," whimpered Ben. "I want you, I want you Tom, Martin said you- you-"  
"I'm incredibly hard right now," Tom purred, "and you're not here to suck my cock, the least you can do is get me off. Tell me what you'd do, if you were here right now. Talk dirty to me with that filthy tongue of yours, there's a good boy."  
Benedict gasped.  
"I would get down on my knees... I'm on my knees for you, Tom, naked. You have your hand in my hair. I'm pulling down your trousers with my teeth, and your pants, and your cock is against my face. I'm nuzzling it, I've wanted to do this for so long, I'm hard and leaking and so are you, I'm licking the head of your cock ever so gently, kissing away the precome...I'm swallowing it, but you've got some on your hand from where you were touching yourself and you're wiping it on my face, just next to my mouth. I'm licking around my lips to wash it off, and jerking you off, it takes both hands because you're so big, so very big, and I lick your balls as well because I know you like that...they're heavy, you're close to coming so I take your cock down my throat, I tilt my head right back to get you as far into my mouth as possible... You're moaning, calling me names, I'm a bad boy and mustn't come before you, I have to hold onto myself to stop me from coming. I'm deepthroating, choking, you keep fucking my face and calling me a whore, a filthy boy, and I feel you start to come in my mouth, and it's warm and milky and I want more but you pull out and come on my face, my chest, you drag me onto your lap and rub against me so that some of your come coats my cock..."  
It was Tom's turn to gasp, and it became a drawn out moan as his hand worked frantically and he released spurt after spurt, managing to utter "you may come, Ben" before dropping the phone on the table by his bed and flopping back on the cushions to catch his breath.   
A while later, Martin phoned back.  
"Just checking you got the original message," he said. "Your birthday, Rome. I'll send you the hotel's address."  
"Perfect," Tom said. "Bloody hell, Martin, if the acting hadn't worked out for Ben he could certainly have made a fortune working on a sex line."  
"I'm glad it did work out," Martin replied. "This way, only you and I reap the benefits of his inner slut."  
***  
That was three weeks ago, and Tom has not stopped replaying the exchange in his head every day, and more importantly every lonely night, since. He rubs his hand across his face, the heat of the Italian capital prickling at the crinkles around his eyes, and lets the hotel porter heave his case with seemingly minimal effort up the stairs and lead him to his room, which is separate from Benedict and Martin's suite but near enough not to arouse suspicion when he goes between the two- that's definitely the wrong kind of arousal. He smiles, thanks the man in his flawless Italian, tips him, and goes down to the bar.  
Martin is sat by the window, looking for all the world like Martin Freeman pretending to be not Martin Freeman, leaning with his face away from anyone who might recognize him, yet still keeping a rather shifty looking eye out for Tom. He spots him, rises, and buys him a drink.  
“How was the flight?” he asks. Tom sinks down into a soft chair beside him and wipes a sheen of sweat from his tanned forehead. “That bad, huh?”  
“Turbulent, and lacking in air conditioning. But the staff were charming and very apologetic,” says Tom, sipping elegantly at his drink. “It was all worth it, though.” He glances round, sees they are alone in the room, and dips to press a chaste kiss to Martin’s lips. The older man’s hand winds its way through gently curled fair hair, and directs his mouth closer. “It’s good of you to do this, Martin,” Tom says, at last pulling back and keeping his eyes fixed intensely on Martin’s own.  
“It’s what he wants,” Martin says lowly, “and who am I to refuse him… he’s fragile, Tom. People don’t realise how damned fragile he can be. He’s barely spoken to anyone outside of a work context since I told him we’d do this for your birthday, just stays in and makes me hurt him, just to remind him he can feel. Amanda’s getting suspicious.” Sadness twinges his otherwise even voice. “It’s far from ideal us being here now, in fact. Amanda… well, it’s nothing for you to worry about. My mess, I suppose. Shall we?”  
He rises from his seat, and Tom follows suit.  
“I warn you, he wanted this,” murmurs Martin, slipping the keycard through the lock. Tom feels suddenly apprehensive; what could be so bad that Martin needs to remind him it’s all consensual? A sick feeling trembles through his whole body, and he grips Martin’s wrist.  
“Martin, what’s going on?”  
“He wanted this. Wants. He wants this,” Martin says quietly, as they enter the lounge with minimal noise, their footfalls muffled in the plush mint green carpet. “We can’t let him know if we have second thoughts, he’ll think it’s because we don’t want him, not because it’s too extreme.”  
Too extreme…  
Too extreme? Just what kind of messed up headspace had Benedict gotten himself into?  
Martin pushes open the door to the bedroom and nothing more needs to be said. Benedict is standing facing towards them, but looking down, with his arms extended against the top half of a beautiful (mahogany, looks expensive- what kind of a hotel is this? Wonders Tom, before his brain completely short circuits as his eyes travel slowly downwards) St Andrew’s cross. His long legs are similarly bound to the lower parts of the cross, and by the look of it, the distance those beautifully muscled limbs are extended, this is a custom-made cross, perfectly designed to stretch his abnormally tall body to breaking point, if the little twists of his shoulders and the whimpers falling from his mouth are anything to go by, which begs the question “what-the-fuck-is-going-on-here?” Benedict’s predilections have taken a turn for the more hardcore- as have his wardrobe choices. The man is clad in the most obscenely well fitting red silk lingerie, clinging to his pecs and presumably adding some extra oomph- trust Benedict to go for a push up bra, the ordinary ones aren’t good enough for him- and caressing the tempting contours of his backside, dipping perilously close into his thighs at the front, barely hiding the large and leaking erection he is currently sporting. He is trembling, head bowed, an errant curl falling into his face and giving him the appeal of the most delicious fallen angel.   
He takes in a shuddering breath as he becomes aware of their presence, and the muscles in his shoulders ripple slightly. He tries to shift the weight on his legs, which end in a pair of matching scarlet stilettoes, to no avail; the distance between his legs is too great. Tom is almost sorry Ben has foregone garters and stockings, but he supposes that realistically, the thin material would rip from the spreading of Ben’s legs, which would take all the fun out of him and Martin ripping the stuff themselves.  
“Hello, darling,” says Tom, his voice low. Benedict raises his head slowly, like a frightened animal- and, by all the saints, he’s only gone and worn vibrant red lipstick as well. Tom’s cock takes on a life of its own at this point, because there’s no way his brain is capable of telling it what to do in this lust-fogged state. “Did you miss me?”  
Ben nods, almost imperceptibly, looks at Martin through heavily mascara-ed lashes. Martin nods, businesslike, already stripping out of his light jacket and rolling up his sleeves.  
“You can speak,” he says crisply, “safeword’s still an option.”  
Benedict shakes his head violently.  
“No,” he rasps.  
“No?” Tom asks gently. He reaches for Benedict’s face, brushes fingertips across that sinful cupid’s bow, and exhales a deep breath as Benedict’s lips part and suck those fingers inside, lapping catlike around each digit with care and desperation intermingled.  
“Use me,” whispers the brunette. “Use… Just… I want it. Don’t you want me anymore?” He’s already welling up- Tom wonders how long Martin left him like this for. Ben’s submissive headspace is meant to be a calming thing, supposed to bring him away from all his insecurities and simplify his needs in life, but something’s wrong. Ben’s already crying, tears trickling like sad black rivers down the high cheekbones millions around the world love to croon over. Tom knows Martin does all he can, it’s not Martin’s fault that this has happened, but it isn’t Ben’s either.  
“Hush, hush,” Tom soothes, gently fingerfucking the other man’s mouth. “Of course we want you. Look at me. Look, Benedict.” A sudden sharp tug at Ben’s chin, and Martin’s grip is forcing the brunette to look directly at Tom, his mouth slackening as he meets deep blue eyes. “Now, we’re gonna get you down from there- how long have you been waiting there for me, Ben? Honestly?”  
“Three hours. And... Three hours, twenty two minutes,” quavers Benedict. Fucking hell, he’s been counting? The whole time? His limbs are probably numb. Tom and Martin loosen the ties, gently rub the circulation back into sensitized wrists and ankles before going any further, even as Benedict is protesting, trying to finger himself open for them; Martin has to pin him down so they can get the bloodflow back to normal, and that drives Ben almost wild with need, and when they let him up he’s so hard that the silk of his knickers is almost giving up on trying to constrain his cock. Tom palms him through the soaking material, running his hand along the silken length until he reaches the top, where he feels the tell-tale lump of a cock ring. Benedict jerks on his grip, thrusts weakly, and whimpers “Tom, please”. Tom suddenly feels a rush of pity- he’s no longer the grateful third party along for the ride, which is what troubled him last time, but rather someone who is needed, desperately. Ben needs him for affirmation, Martin needs him because Benedict needs all the help he can get, and while Martin has a family to go back to, Benedict just has them.  
"Please what?" Tom croons, stroking that soft hair. It is a genuine question. Benedict leans into his touch, shuddering as Martin presses wet kisses to wrists red and raw, before answering hesitantly, "make me your whore. I’m your whore".  
Martin is raising him to his feet in seconds, helping Benedict balance on his heels- evidently this is something they've done before or at least discussed, because he is unfazed, slips easily into the role of a man who has completely unashamedly hired a prostitute.  
"Come here, sweetheart," he growls. "I want to see you. All of you." He sits back on the bed, patting his lap, and Benedict sashays forward, hips swinging, lips slightly parted, dipping his fingers into his bra. Martin reaches for Tom, and they kiss; by the time they break apart, panting, Ben is bra-less and sinking down onto Martin's lap, moaning. Martin reaches for one rosy nipple and twists it suddenly, making Ben squeal. "I said all of you, disobedient little slut," he hisses. "Knickers down. Heels can stay on."  
"Sorry sir. So sorry," Benedict murmurs, pulling away and standing, and slips his red silk knickers down, stepping out of them. "Better sir?" he addresses both of them. His cock bobs and glistens, and Tom licks his lips, opens his trousers and starts jerking himself- who needs underwear at times like this?  
"Better," Tom says. "But I want your mouth."  
"Yes sir."  
Benedict sinks to his knees and Tom guides his cock to that wet, lipsticked mouth, growling as pale,smudged eyes raise to look at him as the brunette tongues his slit, licks the underside of his twitching erection and sighs breathily as he takes the silky length into his mouth, where it makes an outline against his hollowed cheeks. Lipstick smears its way across Tom's cock as it slides in and out of the wet suction, and Tom's head falls back in ecstasy. His climax builds, but he reaches down with both hands, and nudges Ben's cheek with one, withdrawing with a pop and ordering him to bend over the table. He staves off his orgasm with the other hand tightly round the base of his cock.  
Martin makes an approving noise and leans over to get a packet of condoms from a drawer, which he hands to Tom along with a tube of lubricant. It turns out,as Tom runs one lubed finger down Benedict's crack, that this second preparation is unnecessary, as his hole is slick and stretched already. Tom grips the base of his cock firmly, and guides himself into the wet heat, at which point Benedict squirms and tries to take him deeper, grunting and rubbing his cock against the edge of the table. Martin is suddenly at his head, kissing at the brunette’s neck, mouthing at the sweat that trickles down. He moves his lips towards Benedict’s own, smeared and messy with smudged scarlet, but Benedict jerks his head aside, eyes blazing with deep emotion.  
“I don’t kiss clients,” he hisses. Martin raises an eyebrow; Benedict’s getting further into this role than maybe he’d like. Martin is momentarily thrown, but Tom is still thrusting into Benedict and has no such qualms about his role.  
“I don’t think anyone asked you,” he snarls, with a particularly brutal jerk of his hips, and Benedict lets out a delighted yowl, and something slips from his face; he becomes Benedict again, shedding the role for just a moment, but a moment long enough to gasp out something that convinces Tom that something had to change.  
“Both of you,” he utters, desperately. “I want both of you in me. Use me, hurt me…Break me…”  
Martin glances up at Tom, and their eyes meet in a silent agreement of “fucking hell, no”.  
“Ah, Ben- no, shush, you’ll be ok,” Tom breathes, and lets out a low moan and grunt as he comes inside Benedict’s body, rendering him momentarily speechless. When speech returns to him, he whispers soothingly, “we’re not going to hurt you. Not like that. That’s dangerous levels of hurt right there, and we love you too much for that.” Ben does not reply, but that’s probably because he’s currently deepthroating Martin’s cock, and Tom expects he heard and understood anyway. Pulling out, he slumps back on the bed, and in a few moments Martin joins him, his arms encircling a boneless lump of Benedict, his makeup smeared and his skin damp with a mixture of sweat, tears, come and smudged, running mascara. Martin holds a recently released cock ring in one hand, and the recently released cock it was adorning is sore looking but sated, the relief evident on Benedict’s angular features. He is heaving deep breaths that wrack his whole body, a body he just asked them to break, a body that doesn’t deserve what he wants to put it through.  
“I’m so sorry,” he hiccups, almost inaudibly, as his nose connects with Tom’s shoulder, nuzzling tentatively. Tom pushes him gently away so he can kiss him, and then reaches for the sink just in arm’s reach of his side of the bed.  
“We love you too much for that,” Martin says, and looks at Tom, who is now busily wiping Benedict’s face clean with a damp flannel from the nearby washbasin. Benedict opens sleepy eyes and gazes forlornly at Tom over the damp flannel.  
“You said that,” he says softly.  
“I meant it,” replies Tom.  
“I thought you might not want me like I wanted you.”  
“Well, you can rest assured I do.”  
Benedict heaves himself upright and scoots across the bed to where Martin is sitting, looking with creases of a frown across his tired face at the mobile phone in his hand. A series of increasingly terse texts from Amanda light the screen, and although Martin tries to hide them before Benedict sees, it’s too late, he’s already read the last four.  
“You should get back to her,” Benedict whispers, cupping Martin’s face and gently kissing his cheek. “I never wanted to steal you, Martin. I just wanted to share. I owe her big time, it’s not right.”  
“I can’t leave you…”  
“You can, and you will.” He drops his hands and smiles at the sheets on which they sit. “Tom will stay with me. You go and make things ok with her,” Benedict says, clearly, with more conviction than Martin’s seen him display in the past months. His face lights up, and he strokes Benedict’s knuckles until it proves too ticklish and makes the brunette giggle. It’s like music to Martin’s ears, and to Tom’s.   
He leaves them the next morning, watching them fondly as they sleep like kittens in the rumpled hotel bed. He considers leaving a note, but now they’ve got each other it hardly seems necessary. They’ll know where he is if they need him.


End file.
